


Bad Town

by MireilleBlue



Category: Indiana Jones Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/F, Inspired by Wynonna Earp (TV), It's just a trope-y gay western, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27543703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MireilleBlue/pseuds/MireilleBlue
Summary: When the Russians swept into town that Sunday evening, Indy was prepared for trouble.Western AU.
Relationships: Marion Ravenwood/ Irina Spalko, Past Marion Ravenwood/ Indiana Jones
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Bad Town

When the Russians swept into town that Sunday evening, Indy was prepared for trouble. Sheriff Marcus Brody had ridden on ahead to warn him and lend him an extra pistol. Adjusting his dust-caked cravat, he’d hopped off his house and tossed the reins to his deputy, cursing a blue streak.

“Indiana Jones. We may have a problem.”

Over drinks, the other man had explained how the outlaws had swept into the small city jail and shot the single guard full of holes. On their way out, they had set the one-room building on fire, and it was now smoldering ashes.

“It’ll take a damn fortune to rebuild,” Marcus had grumbled, in a voice still tinged with the genteel accent of the east. “Forty strong, they were, and led by a woman.”

At this information, Indy’s ears had picked up. Woman outlaws weren’t unheard of west of the Rockies, but very few had developed such a terrifying reputation as Irina Spalko. She had been menacing the west long enough to learn to break a horse and rustle cattle, but not long enough to lose her thick Slavic accent. Legend surrounded her like a cloud of cigar smoke, and some said that she had a sixth sense for avoiding arrest. But if she intended to cause trouble in Indy’s domain, he would ensure that she faced justice. The gallows were strung and prepared, and Indy had local townsmen to guard their cattle carefully. Indy had been elected sheriff by virtue of his clear-sightedness and fortitude, and he didn’t intend to give up protecting the town now.

He had taken Brody’s arm and ushered him into the rickety wooden saloon, ordering neat whiskeys for both of them.

“Marcus,” he had said. “Don’t you worry.”

Now, Indy stood by the large paddock near the railroad tracks, listening to the snorting and stomping of the cattle. In the late afternoon heat, the musk of the animals and the smell of hot earth was overpowering. In the distance, a dry wind swept through the scrubgrass, and he could feel the heat of the ground through his boots. Pushing the fedora lower on his forehead, Indy waited.

Soon enough, he heard the slap of running feet. Carrie Ann, one of the working girls at Ravenwood’s saloon, was jogging towards him. Wiping the sweat from her brow, she tucked a wayward pin back into her chignon and nodded at him.

“Sheriff, they’re here.” She pointed a pale finger at the horizon, where a cloud of dust was rising.

Indy scowled and nodded as she skittered off. He watched as the distant silhouettes drew nearer, counting six horses, then ten. Not forty, as Brody had recounted, but still a formidable posse. Most of the men reined their horses in as soon as they saw him, standing against the paddock fence with his sidearm raised to the sky.

“Come any closer and I’ll shoot,” he hollered, brandishing his weapon.

The last rider, unimpressed by his show of force, reined her horse in lazily, gazing down at him with a critical expression. She was dressed in men’s breeches and a sturdy riding jacket, and a military-issue cap covered her short dark hair. Her eyes were piercingly blue, and her face was slightly sunburned. Most interestingly, she wore a long, exotic-looking sword strapped to her belt.

“Sheriff Jones?” There was the slight rasp of an accent in her throat.

“That’s me,” he said gruffly, reluctantly lowering his sidearm, but keeping the safety off. “Who are you?”

“Irina Spalko,” she said calmly, leaning down to offer her hand.

Indy shook his head. “Sheriff Brody paid me a visit. Said you burned his jail and freed a prisoner.”

“You cannot believe every rumor you hear, Sheriff.” Snatching her hand back, she pulled back on the reins, and her horse shifted sideways a bit, snorting restlessly.

“Tell me, Sheriff Jones. Is there a place where I can water my horses?”

He smiled tightly. “Ravenwood’s saloon. Marion will charge you extra though, just in case you decide to burn her building.”

* * *

Irina Spalko quite liked Ravenwood’s saloon. The proprietress, a middle-aged woman with long, messy auburn hair, ran a boardinghouse and brothel from the second floor. Her alcohol was cheap, and the price for stabling horses was reasonable. Marion Ravenwood could drink anyone under the table, Sheriff Jones included, and she seemed all too comfortable in the masculine world that she inhabited.

The two women had kindled a grudging friendship, and Marion still made Spalko’s posse pay extra for accommodations. And yet, Irina sensed that Marion was a kindred spirit. They would loiter together at the bar, Marion washing a seemingly endless supply of dirty shot glasses, Irina smoking long European cigars. One evening, half-drunk and wreathed in smoke, the Russian woman leaned over the bar and fixed her gaze on Marion.

“How did you come to own this saloon?”

Marion squinted. “It was my father’s. When he passed on, I inherited the place.”

“And you run it alone?”

“Yes, I do. This place is dear to me, and I’ve never wanted to share it with a man.”

Spalko laughed softly, placing her glass on the bartop with a clink. She agreed with the sentiment, but the whiskey and the late hour were clouding her mind. Standing up, she pushed in her chair, and nodded to the other woman.

“Good night.”

Later, lying on the four-poster bed in her rented room, Spalko pulled the quilt up to her chin and stared at the ceiling. Something about Ravenwood’s dimpled cheeks and warm brown eyes stuck in her mind, and she felt a strange palpitation in her chest. Marion was beautiful in a way that Spalko never had been, warm and soft and freckled. She attracted a lot of attention from saloon regulars but seemed immune to their advances. Spalko had always known she was different from other women, but now she wondered if Marion was the same kind of different.

* * *

Sheriff Jones decided to pay a visit to Ravenwood’s Saloon one fine Sunday morning. He had never been much for church, and he hoped Marion would be behind the bar. They’d been lovers, years ago; as much as he tried to deny it, he still burned a candle for her. When he walked through the swinging gate to the barroom, he glimpsed her standing over a sink of dishes, dark hair in an unravelling braid. Only one barstool was occupied, and Jones recognized the rough cadence of a Ukrainian accent.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said casually, resting his forearms on the bar and eying the line of liquor bottles on the shelf.

Marion shook off her hands and dried them on her apron. “What will it be?”

“Gin. Double.”

She gave him a dazzling smile and began preparing his drink. A few feet away, Spalko held an expensive cigar between her fingers, and her face was wreathed with smoke. Her hair had grown out a bit, and she wore it in a tight plait. She gave Jones a sour look.

“As you see, I did not set Marion’s tavern on fire.”

“Give it time,” he said tightly. “I have a rope with your name on it.”

“And I have a bullet with yours.” She took a drag from her cigar, then stamped it out on the tabletop. Jones watched as she pushed a pouch of coins towards Marion and stood up. “Our room and board for the month.”

Marion deposited his drink on the bar and snatched up the coins. “Thank you.”

Spalko disappeared through the entryway, and Jones took a sip of his drink. “Business been slow?”

Marion shook her head. “It’s Sunday, sheriff. Everyone’s at church.”

He laughed and changed the subject. “Spalko and her men been giving you trouble?”

Marion shook her head emphatically. “I have no complaints. They pay their bills on time, and some of those gentlemen keep my working girls company. Can hardly understand their accents, though.”

“And Spalko?”

“No trouble.” Something strange came into Marion’s expression, and her eyes softened. “I quite like the company.”

Later, tired and tipsy on gin, Jones would remember Marion’s face and feel a pang of jealousy.

* * *

“That’s it,” Marion called out, pointing a tanned finger at the cliffs below. She was dressed in hiking boots and men’s trousers, and her face was coated with a fine layer of dust. Spalko came to a stop behind her and leaned over her shoulder.

A series of sturdy adobe structures was built into a gap in the cliff face, sheltered from the heat and sun. Cupping a hand over her eyes, she noticed a rope ladder stretching towards the ground, faded and crumbling. The ground was strewn with broken pottery, and everything was draped with cobwebs. The place was clearly uninhabited, and Spalko took in the architectural details with interest.

Marion grinned at her excitement. “The Pueblo built this city a few hundred years ago, but the overhang protects it from the elements. My father used to take me here.”

“It is incredible.” Spalko stared down at the shadowy ruins, eyes wide and astonished.

“I never felt like sharing it with anybody else,” Marion whispered, letting the wind tug her hair from under her cap. “I suppose I was waiting for someone who would appreciate it.”

They shared a cautious smile.

“My father loved this sort of thing. Relics, stories, ancient junk from all over the world. He was an archaeologist, and when he moved west, he took his curios with him.”

A cloud crossed the sun, and the ladder began to swing in the wind. Marion offered her arm, and Spalko took it, walking closer to the cliff’s edge.

Marion looked down. Her freckled face, usually alight with confidence, darkened with unease. “I always knew I was…different from other girls. Even my father could see it. He ensured I was educated in the classics, from Euripides to Plato. When he gave me Sappho, he said he ‘knew he was introducing me to a kindred spirit.’”

She flashed a tiny smile, but her arm was stiff. “I sensed that you are the same.”

Spalko nodded shortly, watching cloud shadows brush the dry grass below. The conversation was suddenly more interesting than the ruins. “Yes.”

Marion moved away, sitting lightly at the edge of the outcropping. Spalko followed.

“I trust you’ll keep this conversation between us?”

“I shall,” Irina said quietly. There was no one to see, not for miles, and so she offered her hand to Marion, who took it silently. Her palm was warm and slightly roughened.

Under the afternoon sun, Marion’s hair was a rich red-gold, and the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes were deepened. Her free hand went to Spalko’s cheek, and she leaned forward until her face was a breath away. She smelled of lye soap and rosewater.

“If I may be so bold,” Marion whispered, “a blush suits you well.”

Her cheeks heated further, but she let Marion pull her into an embrace. There was the sudden shock of lips on hers, and a firm hand pressing her waist. Her body coiled and vibrated with energy, like the electric bulbs she’d seen in streetlights back east. Just as quickly, the American woman drew away.

“I’m sorry--”

“--No,” Spalko interjected, laying a tentative finger over her lips. “No apology. I am happy you brought me here.”

Marion smiled in relief. Standing up, she brushed the dust from her trousers with an awkward twirl. “It’s a long walk back to the saloon.”

* * *

Something strange was afoot. Slouched at the bar, cap pulled low over his eyes, Sheriff Jones watched Marion rinse a stack of shot glasses. Her hands were rough and reddened, and her hair was a frizzy mess, but she seemed cheerful. A broad and secretive smile split her face, and it only faded when she returned to the bartop, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Want a refill?”

Jones nodded silently. Marion cracked a bottle of whisky and poured it gently into the cup. He laced his fingers together, suddenly realizing how quiet it was in the saloon.

“Where are the Russians?”

Marion shrugged and replaced the bottle. “Out in town, I suppose.”

“Makes me nervous,” Indy admitted in a low voice, glancing over his shoulder. “You know, Marcus says he’s got an eyewitness to the jailhouse fire out in Cochise county.”

“That’s none of your concern, Sheriff,” Marion stated firmly. “Spalko and her men have been perfectly behaved--”

“—I’ll be the judge of that,” Jones snapped. “Besides, you’ve made a fortune on their business. You’re hardly impartial.”

Marion’s eyes lit with inexplicable rage, and she snatched up a dishrag, twisting it between her hands. “You’re in _my_ establishment. Mind your tongue.”

Throwing back the last of his whiskey, Jones got to his feet and shoved the barstool aside. “Good night, Marion,” he snapped, storming towards the exit.

* * *

Spalko awoke to the smell of smoke. Rummaging in the darkness for a matchbook, she lit a candle and shoved her feet into her boots, pulling a jacket over her nightclothes. Shouts echoed up the stairway, and she could hear glass shattering and falling furniture. Stepping into the hall, she knocked roughly on Antonin’s door to wake him, then crept down the stairs, hand on her pistol.

Sheriff Jones and a few of his deputies stood before the door, lit by the flames burning wildly near the far wall. Marion stood behind the bar, pressing a rag to her face and glowering at the intruders. The air was hazy, and a gray coating of ash covered her clothes.

“---Get the hell out of my saloon!” she shouted, pointing emphatically to the door. The flames lit up her cloud of auburn hair.

“Gladly,” the sheriff responded, neatly reloading the chamber of his handgun and giving it a twist. “But we’ll be taking Spalko with us.”

Still hidden in the shadows, Irina scowled, drawing her weapon.

Still breathing through the rag, Marion stepped out from the bar, marching up to Jones without so much as a glance at the flames creeping across the floor.

The sheriff lifted his gun. “Freeze,” he warned her, tilting down his hat with his free hand.

“I’ll be damned if--”

“—Shut up or I’m taking you in, too. You’re harboring a fugitive.”

Watching him click off the safety and squint down the barrel of his gun, Spalko felt a cold dread. Ordinarily, she’d just slip out the back door and steal a horse, then make her way to the next county before anyone got wind of her escape. But she felt something for Marion, and she wouldn’t stand by while these so-called lawmen brandished their guns and shouted threats.

Tossing her shoulders back, she stepped slowly from the shadows.

“Leave her be, Jones. This matter is between us.”

He swung around instantly, and a bullet pierced the drywall behind her head. Marion shrieked as the deputies began firing, and Spalko rolled behind the bar, returning fire. Marion followed, eyes wide and uneasy.

“You should run,” Spalko muttered. “I apologize for the damage to your saloon--”

“—That doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “And I’m not leaving you alone.”

Soft fingertips brushed her cheek, and then she felt Marion shove a piece of cloth into her hands. “Cover your mouth,” she advised.

Irina nodded, still firing over the bartop. The air was dark with smoke, and she pressed the kerchief over her mouth and nose.

Marion was speaking. “…there is a door at the back of the kitchen. If we can create a distraction, we’ll have time to get to the barn and take a horse.”

Spalko nodded crisply. “On my signal.”

Across the room, a keg of ale sat against the wall, thus far untouched by the flames. Lining up the shot, Spalko fired towards the container, gesturing for Marion to get down. It exploded with a flash and roar, and she dropped, covering the other woman with her arms. Bits of burning wood rained down lazily, and she counted to three, then peeked over the bar to find the sheriff and his deputies on the ground, apparently stunned by the blast.

“Now!” she hissed, dragging Marion to the kitchen door. Together, they raced through the darkened room and into the courtyard, heading for the barn.

* * *

The terrain was hilly and desolate, covered with scrubgrass and rock as far as the eye could see. Marion let her horse slow a bit, watching steam rise from the ground as the sun rose. They hadn’t encountered another person since fleeing the burning saloon, and she estimated that the nearest town was two days’ ride away. Beside her, Spalko held the reins in one hand, keeping the other cupped over her eyes. Her cheeks were streaked with soot, and she looked faintly ridiculous in a singed nightgown and men’s boots, but Marion felt happiness spark in her chest.

She knew she should be feeling regret and mourning for the loss of her establishment. But nothing would prevent her from starting again a few states over; the west was vast, and word travelled slowly. It was easy enough to outrun mistakes.

More importantly, she’d gained the companion she’d always lacked. Spalko was strange, fierce, a bit difficult to parse. But she was also a brilliant conversationalist, worldly, and reliable in a fight. Marion had been born with a strangeness that alienated her from the rest of the town, but she’d stumbled upon someone who was the same kind of strange as she was. And Marion would hang onto that with all of her might.

Stretching out her arm, she offered Spalko a hand. Her grip was gentle, and she brushed a thumb over Marion’s knuckles, smiling slightly.

“I fear I’ve made your life more difficult,” Irina murmured, letting her face fall.

“Nonsense. I always enjoy an adventure, and that town was becoming intolerably boring.”

“Indeed.” Her expression relaxed.

“…And more importantly, I didn’t want to lose you.”

She scowled, but Marion didn’t miss the twitch in her cheeks.

“Admit it, you would’ve missed me, too.”

“It is true,” she sighed, letting go of Marion’s hand.

They rode towards the sunrise together.


End file.
